In Which Boggarts Become a Recurring Theme

I took a shine to a fat man on the 302 today. He was carrying a tub of luxury ice cream and sporting a panama hat. Clearly a terrible pervert. I got off two stops early to give chase but he got away from me in the ginnels, which annoyed me because I wanted to see where he lived. In the patrician villas with their steep, clipped lawns, where bored doctors' wives stick pins in their poppets? In the honeysuckled cottages with their bowed-out bellies and boggart tracks in the begonias? Or down in the toast-rack terraces with the likes of me? The only thing we can be sure of is that the ice cream met a sticky end.